When Charlie met Surak
by The Libran Iniquity
Summary: When Malcolm tells Trip to get a hobby he does so, and borrows some reading material off of T'Pol. Then strange things start to happen in the chief engineer's presence... (COMPLETED)
1. innocent eyes

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No films or books were plagiarised (too much) during the conception, minimal planning and eventual writing of this fanfic ;)

Part one of two.  
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"Whatcha doin'?"

"Attempting to realign the targeting scanners in such a way that the efficiency and accuracy of the aft cannon can be further improved."

"Uh-huh."

"Trip?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing here?"

Charles "Trip" Tucker pondered this for a moment. "Well," he said, "I seem to remember a certain loo-tenant - dunno if you know him or not - tellin' me he'd agreed to actually have some dinner this week, and that he'd be meetin' me in the mess about... an hour ago."

"No, I don't believe I do know him," Malcolm Reed replied dryly. "Do enlighten me."

Trip rubbed the back of his neck for a moment. "Well," he began, "he's about this high." He placed his hand, palm down, about three feet above the decking.

"I was under the impression that we don't have any midgets on the crew," Malcolm observed. "Unless of course, Porthos has somehow been fast-tracked through Starfleet and I've not been informed."

Trip shot him a dirty look and continued. "An' he speaks with a god-awful accent - makes me wanna run for the nearest airlock every time he starts speakin'." He stopped and began rubbing his neck again.

Malcolm bit down on his tongue in an effort to hold back a truly scathing remark about accents, and instead watched the motion on Trip's neck. "Are you alright?" he asked curiously.

Trip grimaced and kept on rubbing. "Methinks I may be allergic to nebulas," he muttered. "Haven't been able to stop scratchin' this all day."

"I doubt the nebula is at fault for something that could turn out to be a simple rash, Commander," Malcolm said.

"Yeah," Trip acquiesced, "but my neck started itchin' the minute ol' Jonny upstairs decided that the nebula would be worth investigatin' and we got close to it. When in doubt, blame the cute spatial anomaly. Anyway," he continued, "you're changin' the subject. Where were we?"

"You were giving me a rather apt description of a monkey," was the caustic reply.

Trip grinned. "You, monkey. Hard to tell the difference, really." He started laughing at his own private joke. "C'mon," he wheedled, "if we hurry now we might be able ta catch the last o' Chef's pasta derriere."

Malcolm considered this for a moment. "Don't you mean Chef's pasta d'Arria?"

"Probably." Trip shrugged. "Does it matter?"

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Isn't Chef half-French? "I wouldn't have thought so, no."

"Good, good."

"Trip?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you still doing here?"

Trip stared at his friend with no small level of incredulity. "You," he said, stabbing a finger in the lieutenant's face. "I had a whole lotta fun planned to stop ya thinkin' about work an' whatever, and you've gone an'... blown it off like no-one's business."

"You'll get over it."

Trip brightened. "Oh, yeah."

"Find something to do," Malcolm offered. "Beating that, go find the captain and talk water-polo into the small hours - find a good book - you could even try T'Pol if you really want to - but just leave me alone. I _am_ trying to do some work here."

"What are you tryin' to imply, Loo-tenant?"

Now this was far too good an opportunity to miss. "With all due respect, Commander," he said in his most distinctive British accent, "I wouldn't have thought you needed rumours and common speculation in order to, well... " He broke off deliberately and waited. _Three, two, one..._

The armoury doors closed with a hiss. Now Malcolm could get back to work.

***

The armoury doors closed with a hiss, and for a moment Trip simply stared at them from the corridor side. Well. Of all the inconsiderate little bast... twits.

He turned on his heel and walked off down the corridor, inwardly fuming, which only set off the itching sensation in his neck again, but it was ignored as Trip made his way up to B-deck, where the Vulcan science officer's cabin was. Okay, so maybe some of Malcolm's suggestions bore merit. Didn't mean they all did, though.

He rang the chime beside T'Pol's door with some trepidation, if truth be told. A few long seconds later, the door slid open and she was standing there looking somewhat quizzical at the interruption, and an eyebrow arched by way of question.

"Can I come in?" he asked nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot ever so slightly.

T'Pol didn't answer; instead she moved out of the way of the door so that the engineer could enter and it closed behind him, the unexpected sound making him jump.

When he turned around again T'Pol was standing formally, dead centre in front of her perfectly made bed, hands clasped behind her back. "Can I help you, Commander?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Trip answered. "I was, uh, wonderin' if you, uh, had any, well... books or somethin' I could borrow." She raised a single eyebrow. "Rereadin' the old engineerin' manuals is gettin' a little on the borin' side," he added sheepishly.

Again, T'Pol didn't respond, but instead moved over to her computer and picked up two padds lying next to it. "Perhaps these will be of use," she said, handing them to Trip.

He looked at the top padd and called up the title.

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The Complete Works Of Surak, Concise Edition

"Thanks," he said after a few seconds. Then he left.

Back in the comforting mess of his own quarters Trip settled back against his piled-up duvet, happily ignoring the stack of soiled regulation blues at the other end of the bed. In one hand he had _The Complete Works..._, and he flicked through to the first page:

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Chapter One: Introduction: A History of Vulcan

Trip groaned, then steadied his nerves. "S'just a book," he told himself firmly. "Can't hurt."

He began to read.

***

The next morning Jonathan Archer stopped by Engineering, expecting to find his oldest friend on _Enterprise_ knee deep in various scanning equipment or at the very worst, already running desperately behind whatever the schedule of the day was, throwing the whole department into a kind of chaos that could only be found under this particular chief engineer's command.

He was, however, mildly surprised to find Charles Tucker (more commonly known to people as Trip) sitting at a workstation behind the warp reactor, calmly monitoring information on the screen in front of him. In fact, the captain realised as he made his way around the reactor, the whole atmosphere down here was one of complete tranquillity and calm... if he was honest with himself it freaked him out a little. Maybe it was just him, but something wasn't quite right here.

Trip looked up as Jonathan approached him at the workstation, carefully avoiding an unsteady pile of diagnostics tools as he did so. "Mornin' Captain," he said calmly. "Can I help you?"

Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks. Something niggled at the back of his head but he ignored it. "I just... came to see how you were doing, Trip," he replied slowly, not taking his eyes off the younger man's face. "I know things have been a little hectic down here lately... "

Trip stayed sitting and waited patiently until Jonathan's floundered sentence didn't come back. "I'm fine sir," was the strangely neutral reply. "Nothin's goin' on that my team can't handle."

Jonathan took another step forward and leaned over Trip's monitor. "Are you sure you're okay, Trip?"

"Yes."

"Nothing wrong at all?"

"Actually, Captain, there is," Trip said seriously. Oblivious to the other man's worried look, he continued. "I would prefer it if you called me Charles."

"Charles?" Jonathan repeated in disbelief. He couldn't ever remember his friend ever wanting to be addressed as anything other than 'Trip'.

"It is my name," Tri - no, Charles - replied, and there was no mistaking the undertones of logic in his response.

"I know that... Charles," the captain replied. "But you've always demanded that you not be called that. You told me that being the third Tucker with that name was a 'royal pain in the ass' and you wanted rid of it."

Charles pondered this for a moment. "All due respect Captain," he said, "but I would much prefer to be known by my given name from now on."

"Alright," Jonathan answered, unsure of what else to say. If Trip was playing one big joke on him than he was doing a damned good job at it. But if he was being serious... "Are you sure you won't join me for breakfast, then?"

Charles shook his head and returned his attention to the monitor. "I've already eaten, Captain."

"I'll see you later, then," Jonathan said at last.

"Okay." Charles didn't look up.

Jonathan left, trying to figure out what was wrong with his friend as he went.

***

Later that day there was a senior staff meeting arranged to start at thirteen hundred hours in the small briefing room on the ship. Malcolm, as per usual had arrived ten minutes earlier than when the meeting was due to start, as he relished the relative 'quiet time' before everyone else arrived.

With a padd in one hand, he opened the door and found, to his surprise and consternation that he wasn't as alone as he had expected to be.

"You're rather early, aren't you?" he asked the figure by the window as the door closed behind him.

Trip Tucker turned around. "Had I known you were here just now, I would say the same thing about you, Lieutenant," he replied calmly.

"Or we could both be on time, and everyone else running late," Malcolm joked, knowing Trip's affinity for tardiness.

Trip raised an eyebrow. "I find that highly unlikely."

"'Highly unlikely'?" Malcolm repeated, stepping closer. "That's a new one for you."

"What do you mean?" Trip asked.

Malcolm shrugged. "I suppose I'm too used to hearing you make a joke of things. Maybe it's just me..." he trailed off, unable to put what he was thinking into words.

Trip's reply wasn't very encouraging, either. "Perhaps," was all he said, attention returning to the field of stars flashing past.

Something inside the armoury officer niggled, and he finally caved in. "I want to apologise," he said hurriedly.

"For what?"

"I went too far," Malcolm explained. "Last night, I mean. In the armoury. I went a... are you alright, Trip?"

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," Trip replied, still in the same flattened accent he had been using for the past few minutes.

Malcolm was about to say something to this when T'Pol walked in, five minutes early, and instead he took a seat at the far end of the table, making the most of peripheral vision as he watched Trip from the corner of his eye, still staring oh so placidly into space.

Something was definitely afoot, but Malcolm was damned if he knew what it was.

***

A little later on, back down in Engineering, a couple of people were watching their commanding officer as he carried out about three or four tasks simultaneously, calmly ignorant of everything else going on around him.

"Hermes," one of them said, "d'you think something's up with Commander Tucker?"

"What do you mean?" Hermes asked, looking over to where his friend had indicated.

"It's weird. I mean, maybe I'm just imagining things, or making something out of nothing, but..."

He turned around. "What?"

"He's been trying to get me to go with him to movie night every day for a couple of weeks now. And today... nothing."

Hermes considered this for a moment. "Claire, you're not actually telling me you _want_ to go on a date with him, are you?"

"No!" Claire protested. "It's just... it - it - it's like my day's not complete without me turning him down yet again." She shook her head again and exhaled deeply. "I'm going crazy, aren't I?"

Hermes put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Look at the man," he said calmly, indicating Tucker's uniformed back. "Just look at him, and tell me what you see."

"From this angle, a very nice ass," Claire retorted, smirking. "Okay, seriously?" At his nod, she took a moment before continuing. "I see... I don't know what I see. Normally, I see a hyperactive twelve-year old who managed to fool Starfleet into letting him be the chief engineer on this ship. You know, someone who isn't always that serious if he doesn't absolutely have to be... someone who knows how to have a bit of fun every now and again."

"I sense a 'but' coming on," Hermes said when she paused.

Claire nodded. "Yep. Today... today it's like he's completely clammed up or something. I mean, you saw what he was like this morning... quiet, you know, cool and totally in control. And I was talking to Hoshi... you know, Ensign Sato?... earlier, and she said that at the senior staff meeting the commander was acting a little weird. If I didn't know any better, I'd say... I guess I'd say we've got another Vulcan onboard this ship." She laughed mirthlessly and looked around her like she was expecting something to happen. "There. I've said it. Now, where are the men in white, coming to take me away?"


	2. this is not me

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Thank you to Anna, julie, skully, Gabi (you're not the only one!!), Reedie, Ta'al, Gizzi1213, reader, Betsy (it's not that I don't like Trip - I do! - it's just that I also have a healthy liking for light-hearted character torture) and Sash29 for reviews and feedback. 

If the ending of this seems a lil' rushed or certain armoury officers seem a lil' out of character, I apologise. For some reason I decided to write most of this chapter the week we moved house, hence quick ending, and I haven't yet had the inclination to change anything about it...

Perhaps I ought to have mentioned this before, but I don't own _Enterprise_ or any of the characters, with the exceptions of my two lil' engineers down there. I'd claim to own the books as well, but knowing the Vulcans, they've probably put censors out on them already... it's a conspiracy, I tell ya!  
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"I have an idea," Hermes said eventually, weighing up all the options in his head.

Claire gave him a sideways look. "What is it, and why do I have the sudden urge to run away screaming?"

"That was mature."

"Aren't I always? Anyway, c'mon, what's this idea?" she asked him.

Hermes shrugged casually... maybe a little too casually. "You ask him out."

Claire's reaction was pretty much as he had expected. "What?"

He smirked. "Something like this," he told her, then threw his voice up into falsetto range. "Oh, Co-_man_-der," he gurgled, batting his eyelids, "I desperately need some hunk of a man to take me to the movies, and -"

"Since Mel Gibson died about a hundred years ago, I suppose you'll have to do," Claire interrupted in a deadpan voice. "Now who's mature?" she asked him, resisting the urge to glare.

"Oh, just ask him," Hermes shot back. "If he says yes, or no, or even grins at you, we'll all know he's just the same old Commander Tucker we deal with every day. Making you nothing less than... than a paranoid old bat."

She grinned mirthlessly at him and then stalked over to where their C.O. was still engrossed in whatever the heck it was that he was actually doing. Hermes watched, unable really to look away, as Claire tapped him lightly on the shoulder, saying something that he couldn't hear at all. Tucker replied, seemingly calmly, Claire said something, and then Tucker said something else; it was clearly this last statement that had the biggest impact of the short conversation, as Claire quickly made her way across the walkway, only just short of flat-out running.

"Well?" he asked her.

Claire didn't look back. "Crap," she muttered under her breath.

"What is it?" Hermes asked, immediately alarmed; she wasn't normally the type to let loose in public, if at all.

She shook her head. "Don't ask," she said shortly, "but suffice it enough to say that Commander Tucker is screwed up somewhere. I don't know how, or even why the hell he's like this... but it's not good." She bit her lip and pointedly got on with her work, seemingly giving it every scrap of her attention; Hermes got the hint and disappeared up onto the upper level of Engineering, quickly finding some work of his own to do, trying to suppress his worry for both his friend and C.O. as he did so.

***

Malcolm Reed had always loved puzzles. Whether it was something so simple as a crossword, a jigsaw or even mazes of any type or description, he enjoyed a good puzzle. Riddles especially, and it could safely be said that today Malcolm was facing up to what could easily be described as one of the most challenging puzzles he had ever come across.

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What Was Wrong With Trip Tucker?

And now it wasn't just him; Captain Archer had mentioned Trip behaving oddly that morning, then there was the brief interlude just before the meeting earlier, and just now a nervous Lieutenant Bathurst had come up to him in the mess hall to voice his concerns about the commander's behaviour.

The weirdest thing of all, Malcolm thought to himself as he smoothed out a crease at the edge of the coverlet on his bed, the weirdest thing of all was that in each instance, each of the onlookers had had irkings of themselves being paranoid rather than there actually being any kind of notable change to Trip's behaviour - clearly, said behaviour was that much outside the norm for him.

Right. Malcolm sat down on his bed, placidly ignoring the fact that his efforts with the cover had just been ruined; he had bigger fish to fry, starting with one of distinct Southern extraction.

"Okay so... if there's a change in behaviour, then there will be some kind of a turning point," he decided, staring at the opposite wall. "I know that Trip was perfectly fine when I was talking with him yesterday evening in the armoury. The next recorded instance was... the next morning. Captain Archer reported a pattern to Trip's behaviour that bore a marked difference compared with when I interacted with him the previous evening."

He was going round in circles here... Something had happened inbetween his talking with Trip, and the captain's encounter in Engineering. Hang on a sec... his talking with Trip?

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"Find something to do," Malcolm offered. "Beating that, go find the captain and talk water-polo into the small hours - find a good book - you could even try T'Pol if you really want to - but just leave me alone. I am_ trying to do some work here."_

Bloody hell. Malcolm sat back on his bed suddenly, his mind making a decidedly random connection... and nearly yelled out loud when something jabbed sharply into his arse.

Grimacing somewhat, and suppressing a very long string of curses, Malcolm reached down to find the offending object, and pulled it out, sighing when the pressure... down there... ceased.

It was a padd. Frowning, Malcolm switched it on, noting that it was one of his books. _Ulysses_, to be precise; the first time he had read it was must have been when he was around sixteen or seventeen. He smiled at the memory; for weeks after reading it, he had been dreaming of long, perilous voyages - minus the open sea part, of course - but it had had that sort of influence on him that something like that hadn't really -

That was it. Only... it couldn't be. That was far too simple an explanation, wasn't it? But even assuming that a _book_ was responsible for Trip's change in behaviour, what kind of a book would cause Trip to act like a - as though he was a -

A Vulcan.

Bloody hell. Well, now it all made sense.

As enthusiastic as he was when encountering a new puzzle, it would come as no surprise to anybody observing this man that he was also quite adept at solving them, to say the very least. A naturally agile mind had been honed by years of pilfering his father's copy of the _Telegraph_ newspadd in order to solve the daily crossword, and even as he sat there reeling from arriving at this solution, Malcolm Reed was already formulating a method of 'second opinion', and three distinctly separate solutions for the three most likely outcomes that sprang immediately to mind; there was one he sincerely hoped that he wouldn't have to implement, given that it involved copious amounts of pecan nuts in... questionable places within the ship. However, it was still in reserve... preferably not for long if Lieutenant Reed had his way.

Reaching upwards, Malcolm hit the white comm button that was (in his private opinion) positioned a little too far above his bed. "Reed to Captain Archer..."

***

"Archer to Commander Tucker."

The chirping noise emitted by the comm system coupled with the sound of the captain's voice drew Charles out of his calm reflective reverie, and he reached out to answer the hail.

"Commander, report to Engineering immediately." Then, without a proper signing off, the connection went dead, and for a moment, Charles considered the implications of such a request. He knew from past experience that the captain rarely spoke so shortly with his senior staff unless there was a genuine emergency, and he also knew that if there was a genuine emergency relating to Engineering then one of his staff would have let him know privately rather than the captain committing himself to any sort of intervention.

Drawing a deep breath, Charles left his quarters and left his quarters. Whatever the real reason behind the captain's order was, he would be very unlikely to find out what it was without leaving B-deck.

It was not until he was in a turbolift that a strange prickling feeling down the back of his neck surfaced; a reaction to feelings of suspicion, but this feeling was left unrecognised as the lift continued on its way down through the ship.

***

The instant Trip rounded the corner and disappeared, Malcolm made his first move. Inputting a level of security clearance he rarely, if ever, had to use, he overrode Trip's door mechanism and was inside in less than a minute. Part of him was still reeling from the idea that Captain Archer had actually approved this plan; clearly he too was worried about Trip's current state of mind, whatever it was and had been caused by.

Once the door had closed behind him, Malcolm was shocked for the second time in less than an hour; the floor that lay in front of him was completely and utterly clear. None of the usual eyesores like odd socks, or discarded undershirts - in fact, the whole room was as pristine as it had been before the commander had moved in here a few hours or so before _Enterprise's_ launch. It was, he realised a second later, as though he had walked into Sub-commander T'Pol's quarters, the inside of which he had only ever seen once... but the similarity of layout and general fastidiousness in both cases was astounding. And somewhat unnerving.

But enough of that, he had a job to do. Standard procedure in a situation like this would be to move objects in order to look behind or underneath them, and then to carefully replace them, thus giving the impression that nothing had actually been moved in the first place.

"Oh hell," Malcolm muttered, looking around again. The problem with that particular tactic was that there wasn't actually anything that he could move without some serious help; the bed was bolted down securely onto the parts of the wall and floor that it wasn't already physically a part of, and the storage locker doors were closed, likely locked.

Given the... state of the room, the lockers were probably the best place to begin, and that was precisely what the ship's head of security decided upon, getting inside the first one with ease, stifling a groan at the ordered nature of organisation therein, and then carefully sorting through the stack of contents.

***

Meanwhile, down in Engineering, Jonathan mentally counted down the seconds that had elapsed since comming Trip (or was it Charles?) with all the air of urgency and nothing in the way of any actual facts. If he was honest with himself, Jonathan didn't entirely condone Malcolm's choice of action in this case, but he also realised that in this kind of situation, one generally went with the course of action that would have the least possible chance of finishing up with multiple court martials; this, sadly enough, was that course of action.

Speaking of courses of action, Charles (or was it Trip?) would be down here any second, Jonathan was sure of it... he could wing it once the engineer was down here... couldn't he?

***

Two lockers down, one to go...

Malcolm was definitely beginning to see (and construct) flaws in his oh-so-brilliant plan. Words like 'insubordination', 'invasion of privacy' and 'bloody suicide' floated around and around in his head as he continued searching for... well, he still wasn't entirely sure exactly what it was that he was looking for (aside from the distinct probability that it was some kind of a book), but the odds were good that once he found it he'd recognise it and thus be able to act accordingly.

***

Charles reached the entrance to Engineering in two minutes and twelve seconds. Once the door had closed behind him, he saw Captain Archer lurking by the engine proper. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, Charles went over to him to find out the reason behind the curt summons.

***

As things went, Jonathan may have been a competent enough commanding officer, even a pretty good water-polo player about fifteen or twenty years ago... but in a situation like this, he was a lousy liar whenever he was put on the spot, and it showed up clearer than... well, than a lot of things, no doubt.

Watching the engineer leave the way he came in, Jonathan prayed to whatever deity (human or alien, it didn't really matter to him) was up there listening that whatever Malcolm was looking for in Trip's quarters... well, that he had found it by now.

***

When he finished the third (and final) locker, Malcolm scowled, having had to wade through no less than thirty-seven back issues of technical and engineering journals - in perfect date order. It wouldn't have been so bad, except for the fact that that was exactly what he had found lining the other lockers as well - bloody magazines, for all intents and purposes... if Trip weren't one of his best friends, Malcolm would seriously have considered rounding the man up from wherever the hell he was right then and shooting him.

As it was, he had to settle instead for picturing the happy, happy event in his head (complete with explosive sound effects and graphics, of course) as he took another look around the commander's Spartan quarters. Perfectly made bed, perfectly turned coverlet, perfectly arranged shelves... odd, the harmonica wasn't anywhere in sight... computer as it should be with two padds positioned equidistant from both each other and the edge of the desk...

Hang on... padds?

Malcolm picked one up and switched it on. He then read the title. And promptly stifled a fit of laughter.

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The Complete Works Of Surak, Concise Edition stared back up at him as he silently shook, nearly doubling up from the effort of not laughing out loud.

Well, however outlandish it sounded, this had to be the cause for Trip's behaviour... how on earth had he managed to get hold of _this_ sort of book? _And do I really want to answer that question?_ Malcolm asked himself, slipping the padd into a pocket and zipping it up.

And turned around to see no less than Commander Charles Tucker the Third standing not three feet away from him, head cocked to one side and a questioning look on his face.

"I..." For possibly the first time that day, Malcolm was lost for words.

Trip raised an eyebrow, but didn't move.

"I... I..." Slowly, guiltily, like a man who knew he was condemned and on his way to the gallows, Malcolm edged away from the desk.

Again, no reaction from the senior officer.

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Oh, screw it. "I was... I was just going!" Malcolm grinned desperately at Trip, slipped around him and made a beeline straight for the door. "Er... goodnight, sir."

As the door closed behind him, Malcolm let rip an explosive sigh of relief and leaned against his side of the door, breathing heavily. Why, oh why did he agree to take up security duties on this ship? Why couldn't he have stuck with the weapons part of the job, like normal people would?

At least now there was a chance that this would all be over... all a lot of bloody fuss over very little, in Malcolm's opinion, but this had been his idea... he groaned... he'd clearly been spending too much time around bloody Trip Tucker!

Muttering various obscenities and expletives to himself, Malcolm went to bed. Tomorrow was another day, after all. Maybe he'd be a little calmer with some breakfast inside him... fill his stomach ready for the firing squad that would be sure to follow...

***

Four days later, Malcolm (miraculously still alive) was down in the armoury, completing some scans of one of the torpedoes (there was something wrong with the circuitry) when he heard someone come in behind him. Turning around, he realised it was Trip. "Commander," he said, somewhat warily. "Can I help you?"

Trip shook his head. "Nope," he replied amiably enough. "Just wanted ta thank you, I guess."

"Oh," was Malcolm's quietly stunned response.

Trip grinned. "Mal, if it wasn't fer you, I'd still be eatin' _plomeek_ broth and actin' all high an' mighty." He shuddered. "Still," he added. "Took some apologisin', but at least I got a date outta the whole experience, so it wasn't that bad."

Malcolm nodded mutely.

"There was one thing, though," Trip said as a considered afterthought.

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Here it comes...

The engineer fished around in his pocket and instead of bringing out a fire or sidearm (or even worse, grounds for serious demotion), Trip instead brought out a padd and handed it to Malcolm, who took it.

"Jus' somethin' ta think about," Trip said lightly. "T'Pol's book had me actin' all weird - still can't figure out why, an'... well, that one's some food for thought for ya." Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, he shot a last parting grin at the armoury officer, turned on his heels and exited the armoury.

It wasn't until a couple of minutes had gone by that Malcolm actually dared to switch the padd on, some small part of him still suspecting it was some kind of reprimand from a senior officer (who, given the events that had transpired, would have been acting in his right capacity in doing so).

It wasn't a reprimand.

It was another book.

Malcolm didn't know whether to grin like a fool or find Trip and throttle him with something.

He settled for a slight smirk instead.

He had been given a copy of _The Amazing Adventures of Superman_.


End file.
